Jewel of Gresham Green (9 page)

Andrew squinted in his direction, chuckled. Julia laughed, as well. The moment was made funnier by the fact that Luke was most times contentedly stoic.

The rider had been Jack Sanders, Andrew said as he drew closer with a piece of paper in hand. Julia’s breath caught in her throat. Laurel, little Abigail, Ben? Grace and Thomas? Philip and Loretta? Telegrams never brought good news. But Andrew did not look grim; in fact, he still wore the smile left over from Luke’s quip.

“What is it?” Julia asked.

“Well, a mystery. We’re to give the servants the day off and wait.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what it says.”

She took it with her dirt-stained fingers. To the word, it said,
Give servants day off. Wait for delivery
.

“Did Jack say who sent it?”

“All he knew was that it originated in the Liverpool office, just after opening this morning.”

They knew not a soul in Liverpool. The fact that it was the main shipping terminal in Britain meant it could be someone newly arrived from overseas. Just Friday past they had received a letter from Laurel, saying they anticipated returning to England in January if Ben’s project was concluded upon schedule. And the Clays were not due to arrive for eighteen more days.

“What shall we do?” Julia asked.

“I’ve given Dora and Wanetta the remainder of the day off. Dora’s about to set out for the lending library and to visit her parents. Wanetta asked me to inform Luke.”

He turned again toward the hut. Luke was coming back through the door with pruning shears in hand.

“Did you hear, Luke? Take the day off.”

“Why, thank you, Vicar,” he said, and ducked back into the hut. As he entered the garden again, without the shears, he said, “I’ll fetch Lucas. It’s a fine day for fishing.”

“I wouldn’t plan on that, good man. Wanetta said something about a long overdue visit to your mother.”

“Ah.” Luke shrugged and started for the kitchen steps.

“Poor Luke,” Andrew said when the door closed behind him.

“And poor Lucas,” Julia said. Mrs. Smith was a self-absorbed woman, hedged about with complaints.

“Poor Mrs. Smith,” Andrew added. “To conduct yourself in such a way that it’s a chore for your own children to visit.”

Julia thought of Philip once again.

The sympathy in Andrew’s expression melded into anticipation. “I wonder who sent it. We didn’t expect our adventures to begin so soon, did we?”

He was as pleased as a dog with two tails, almost giddy. She narrowed her eyes. “What have you cooked up, Andrew Phelps?”

He put a hand to his heart. “On my life, I’m as in the dark over this as you are.”

Whatever was going to happen, she should not meet it with dirt beneath her fingernails. She went upstairs in the empty house, washed up, and changed into a simple gown of raspberry muslin shot with blue.

“What shall we do now?”

“Sit in the garden and wait, I suppose.”

And thus they shared a bench, watching Vicarage Lane, as if that would cause the mystery person or persons to materialize. The village was as serene as usual. Cows lowed on their way from milking to pastures. Childish voices were raised in play. River grasses rustled on the banks of the Bryce. A breeze sifted through the leaves of the chestnut tree shading the front gate.

“I should get my novel,” Julia said, thinking of the half-finished copy of Wilkie Collins’
The Woman in White
in the parlor. “Shall I bring your sermon notes?”

He thought for a moment. “I doubt I could concentrate.”

She sat. “Me neither.”

By half-past eleven, she began to wonder if Andrew had been too hasty in sending Dora away. “Perhaps I should make some sandwiches. Just in case.”

“Another half hour?” Andrew asked.

“Very well.”

By noon, he had checked his watch five times. He heaved a disappointed sigh, looked toward the house. “You don’t suppose we’ve been duped, do you?”

“Why would someone go to that trouble and expense?” Julia asked. “And it’s not a very rewarding prank if you aren’t nearby to see the results.”

“Five minutes more,” he said with a little frown. “And then we’ll make those sand—”

“Listen.” Julia touched his hand and held her breath.

There came the sound of wheels and hooves heading slowly eastward up Church Lane, then turning up Vicarage Lane. Four horses and a coach broke through the shade. Julia and Andrew rose, walked to the gate just as the driver reined the team to a stop. White letters on the door spelled out
Maxwell Livery
, used fairly often by visitors from Shrewsbury to Gresham. No luggage was tied to the usual place atop—only a large hamper. To add further mystery, curtains covered the windows.

“Good day to you, sir . . . madam!” exclaimed the driver, gray haired but spry enough to hop down from his box and fold down a little step.

“Good day,” Andrew replied, opening the gate. “And whom do we have here?”

The driver simply smiled, opened the door, and offered a hand to someone inside. Julia caught sight of a sleeve and then Fiona Clay’s smiling face.

Andrew burst into laughter. “My word!”

Ambrose Clay stepped out to join his wife.

“I can hardly believe this!” Julia exclaimed, embracing Fiona.

Her closest woman friend was exquisitely stylish in a gown of amethyst
gros de Londres
that enhanced her violet eyes. A narrow-brim satin straw hat trimmed with brown velvet nestled among coils of sable brown hair. Ambrose was as aristocratically handsome as ever, even with an extra stone’s weight to his medium frame and gray hairs mingled with the brown.

The men helped the driver lower the hamper. Ambrose paid him, and obviously quite handsomely, for the man gaped appreciatively at his palm. “Why, thank you, sir!”

The kitchen seemed a more appropriate and intimate setting for an indoor picnic. Julia covered the table with a cloth, set out salt cellar, pepper grinder, and butter dish, while Andrew laid dishes and fetched bottles of seltzer water from the pantry.

“Our trunks are coming by wagon,” Ambrose explained, the actor’s cultured voice betraying a faint Cornish drawl. He helped Fiona withdraw one brown paper–wrapped package after another from the wicker hamper.

“We wanted some private time with our dearest friends,” Fiona said.

Julia was touched, and understood the reason for subterfuge that went beyond Ambrose’s dramatic nature. The Clays were the most popular couple in Gresham, esteemed even by those who had never set foot inside a theatre. The telegram would have been read by at least one person, Jack, and possibly Mr. Trumble, which would be entirely in his rights as postmaster. Word would have spread rapidly through the village, stifling any hope of privacy.

They had left Liverpool that morning and spent only enough time in Shrewsbury to order the picnic from the Lion Inn. It was a delightful feast: lamb cutlets; plover eggs; cucumber salad; tongue; curried lobster; Gruyère cheese; seasoned new potatoes; a loaf of rye, wheat, and barley bread; coconut cake; a dozen beautiful Montreuil peaches; and even four bottles of Welsh nectar.

“How did you come to leave New York early?”

Wood scraped against flagstones as Ambrose pulled out chairs. “Our hotel clerk telegraphed the White Star Line and discovered a liner was to leave the very next morning after closing night,” Ambrose said as they settled into chairs. “We traded in our tickets for the HMS
Republic
.”

“But you were to stop in Cornwall to visit your family,” Andrew said.

Ambrose’s smile faltered. “We shall go another time. We were too long from home.”

Poor Ambrose,
Julia thought. His gray eyes said it all. He was suffering one of his episodes of despondency, which made it all the more touching that he would seek their company before even the refuge of their rooms over the Larkspur stables.

He obviously read her thoughts, for he smiled and said, “But it’s the first I’ve suffered in weeks.”

“And why is that, do you suppose?” Andrew asked.

Ambrose hesitated. “As simple as this seems, I reduced my usual dozen or so daily cups of tea to one, in the morning. Gradually, mind you, so as not to get headaches.”

He had gotten this piece of advice from Ada Cavendish, the British actress who played Anne Boleyn to his Henry VIII at Madison Square Theatre.

“A beautiful lady,” Fiona said. “But suffering the same bouts of despondency as Ambrose. A friend’s aunt, a midwife, had recommended the cutting back.”

“It worked for her,” Ambrose said.

Fiona nodded at her husband. “I’m very proud Ambrose was open-minded enough to give it a try. I was skeptical.”

Fiona was protective of Ambrose, she being of stronger temperament.

Julia was proud of Andrew, too, for so many reasons. At this moment, it was for the modest amount of food on his plate against such extravagant temptation. He had not needed a dose of stomach tonic for several days.

After the meal, the Clays insisted upon leaving the leftover food.

“Have it for supper,” Ambrose said after covering a gusty yawn. “Once Mrs. Herrick gets sight of us, she’ll be disappointed if she’s not allowed to feed us at least one meal.”

“We’ll help you tidy up.” Fiona smiled at Julia.

Julia took her by the shoulder, pointed her toward the door. “I’ll take care of this.”

“And I’ll drive you home,” Andrew said. “Perhaps you’ll squeeze in a nap before supper.”

Julia tidied up and decided to allow lunch to digest a bit before returning to the garden. She was on the parlor sofa reading her novel when Andrew returned.

“Well, that was nice, wasn’t it?” he said, sitting beside her.

“Very nice,” she replied. “You were right, Vicar. We still have some adventures left in us.”

He chuckled. That was when Julia noticed the sound of paper rustling. She dipped into his coat pocket, brought out a small paper sack.

“You bought tonic? But there is still a half bottle upstairs.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure . . .”

The bottle in his pocket had been opened, a liberal dose missing. “You couldn’t even make it home? You’re to go to bed. I’m going for Doctor Rhodes.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m much better. It must have been the lobster. Curry has never agreed with me.”

“Still, you should have him check you out.”

“I’ve done that, sweetheart. And he’ll simply say I must cut back on rich foods . . . something I already know. I shall lie down for a half hour.”

Julia sighed. “I may as well argue with a gatepost.”

He touched her cheek. “Ah, but a gatepost can’t tell you how beautiful you are.”

“If you think flattery—”

“It’s not flattery when it’s true. Anyway, Mrs. Cooper was in Trumbles, and says the squire seems to have taken a turn for the worse. I need to visit him this afternoon.”

It was pointless to argue. But at least she could watch over him. “Take your nap, Vicar. I’ll wake you in an hour. And I’m going with you.”

“I dreamed again of Octavia last night,” Squire Bartley said from his wheelchair. Gnarled fingers clutched the lap rug close, though a fire hissed and snapped in his library fireplace.

This was probably the only chimney in Gresham with smoke rising, Julia thought. She and Andrew sat in chairs facing the squire. She wondered how Andrew could bear the heat in his suit, for sweat dampened the hair at the nape of her neck and trickled down her bosom.

Still, she smiled and asked, “Was it a good dream?”

A wistful smile touched his lined face. “It was, Mrs. Phelps. Octavia did not speak, but held my hand. When I asked to go with her, she shook her head.”

He turned his face toward Andrew. “Do you imagine I’m close, Vicar, for such dreams to visit so often of late?”

“You may be, Squire,” Andrew replied, gentle but frank. “I’ve known others who have had such dreams before slipping into eternity.”

“Ah . . . I hope so.”

“Are you prepared, my dear man?”

“To meet God?” Squire Bartley nodded. “I am a believer. Still . . .”

The old man fell silent, as if collecting his thoughts. Tears stung Julia’s eyes. She looked at Andrew. He gave her an understanding nod. He was used to counseling people on their deathbeds. The longcase clock ticked away seconds. How many did the squire have remaining to him?

“I have been a selfish man,” he said at length.

“Squire?” Andrew said. “You’ve been generous with the village. You donated a school.”

Founded thirteen years ago, the Octavia Bartley School of Learning had filled a gaping need for children in the upper six forms.

“You provide jobs,” Julia reminded him.

“I could have done more.” His voice thickened. “I sit on a fortune, while Horace Stokes grows beans in every inch of space to feed his orphans. My factory workers live in hovels with no running water. The farmers must scrape up the rent even in years milk production is down.”

This was so. Julia knew Andrew would not argue otherwise to comfort a dying man. Instead he said, still gently, “If it troubles you, it is not too late to repair this.”

“Yes. That is my desire. It is also what Octavia would have wanted.”